


The Keeper of Voile

by CountFrogula



Category: Touhou Project
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountFrogula/pseuds/CountFrogula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of a librarian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

_Home (n): A concession made, over the years, to a place one is either unwilling or unable to leave._

 

"Patchy? What does this word mean?"

 

The magician leaned forward, peering over the back of the book in Flandre's hands and trying to make out the words herself. "...One moment, it seems I've yet to adjust to the lighting here."

 

The little vampire, a dim outline with brilliant red eyes, gives a quick nod at this. "That's okay," she answers, "you get used to it." "Y-" A sudden coughing fit, brought on by the dust swirling about the basement, and its uncomfortable chill. "Yes, I imagine so." It was a miserable cave of a room, but then, home was where the heart was.

 

"Manuals again?" Patchouli asks a little while later, after the question at hand is addressed. She had brought a good deal down here, as she always did - curiously, the little vampire who could only destroy what she touched seemed to keep better care of the books than most - but by and large Flandre had leaned towards the practical lately. "Not that I mean to object, of course. A sound choice, and if I may be honest, one which I am rather better versed in than fiction; there I would defer to Koakuma, if I could ever recommend a conversation with her in good conscience. Still, I didn't expect you to have the..." time? Patience? What else did she have?

 

"Well, that aside, what were you hoping to do with this?"

 

"I wanted to make something," Flandre answers, beaming with excitement at even this small hint of approval. "Do you think I could make a light for my room? Maybe... maybe on a wheel or something, so it keeps moving." Certainly possible, if the wheel could be connected to, say, a windmi- no, no, much too convoluted. Add a quick enchantment and be done with it. "Certainly. You do realise this would - aside being somewhat unreliable as a light - make a good deal of noise while it moves?" At this, Flandre's expression brightens again, and she gives an enthusiastic nod.

 

...Ah, yes. Of course. That was the whole point, wasn't it? A little more life in the room. "I'm sure we can have the parts within the week. I imagine you will wish to assemble them yourself?" At this, Flandre looks hesitant to claim anything for herself, as if she suspected some sort of test. It was only natural, in a way, with so little that was permitted for her. "Well, if it's..." "It's quite alright, Flandre, but I suggest you leave me well out of it. I never had the knack, I'm afraid; I would be rather more liable to damage something or the other."

 

With her questions addressed, the lesson of the day, Patchouli's typical tutoring, began in earnest. Still, it gave little in the way of a challenge or substance lately, and seemed more a footnote to their daily meetings than anything else. More and more, it was becoming a chance to show Flandre some works she might have passed by, or those that required some careful introduction, rather than any sort of formal lesson. Still, it was pleasant in its own way; Gensokyo held precious few students who had nothing better to do than listen, after all, much less those who showed a keen interest in any small scrap from the world they had almost never seen. Anything with pictures, in particular, tended to be a near-guaranteed hit with her as well. A picture was worth a thousand words, and while Patchouli had always disapproved of that particular sentiment, it was hard to deny that for someone who had scarcely seen the outside world, they held a certain power. Something illustrated, then, for the next batch she brought down here; perhaps she should consult Remilia or Koakuma for some lighter material, as well.

 

...But that was quite enough for now. Flandre was beginning to lose focus, and no wonder; it was already past noon, altogether too late for any sensible vampire to be awake so long after sunrise. "Patchy?" She asked through bleary eyes, another of what had at some point become their daily rituals, though how or why, the magician couldn't say. "Yes, I think we would do well to leave it at that. A story before you sleep, then?"

 

"I liked the one from yesterday! Do you think you could make a house out of cakes and gingerbread too, like in the story?" Patchouli blinks a few times, then adopts a mortified expression. "I should certainly hope not, that is no home for any respectable practitioner of the craft, and quite imprac... that is to say, I suggest you take it up with Marisa in the near future. I'm certain she'll be overjoyed by the suggestion." A grin settles on the younger Scarlet's face, and she leans forward to listen more closely.

 

"Very well, then. Once upon a time," Patchouli begins, before finally glancing down at the cover of the book she had picked out. "Once upon a time..." Drat. The _Almagest_. She would have to improvise, then.

 

\- - -

 

Some time later, carefully prying off the sleeping vampire and moving her over to the bedroll in the corner - an ordeal in itself, when she was scarcely used to carrying anything heavier than a book - she makes her way out of the library, taking care to close the door as quietly as she can. The rest of the day, hopefully, would be uneventful. There was a great deal of research to be done today, after all, and it would not to be interrupted.

 

Interrupted, for instance, by the sound of splintering glass on the floor above. She'd best hurry, then. A guest kept waiting was a guest liable to make off with half of Voile.


	2. Nuisance

_Nuisance (n): A constant, inextricable interruption embedded into one's life._

 

It was a quiet day in Voile. A window had been shattered, a thief was brazenly flying about between the shelves as quickly as she pleased. Koakuma, suspiciously oblivious as ever, was babbling into the air with one of her strange rhymes again; at times, the librarian dearly wished she would try a more ordinary sort of speech for once. The sudden wind sent pages fluttering and blew covers shut, all while the witch called for her so loudly that the magician's ears were beginning to ring. All this was to say nothing of the fact that Remilia would likely be making a visit to these halls in a few hours.

 

Yes, it was a quiet day in Voile, all things relative. One learned to lower their standards eventually, in this mansion.

 

On the bright side, at least she was prepared. Patchouli seats herself by her typical desk, next to a warm mug of tea - not there a moment ago, but then, such was Sakuya - and calls out over the top of an open book. "Two bookcases forward, top shelf, fifth from the left. ' _Shams al-Ma'arif_ '. One further to the right for the original Arabic text." "Thanks- _what_?" Surprise and confusion comes to the witch a moment later and, her focus broken, the words are soon followed by a loud crash and skid as her broom slides across the floor.

 

"You're quite welcome," the magician answers in her typical deadpan, eying the slowly settling cloud of dust around the crash site. "I will have you know I take your education exceedingly seriously. Now, while I realise that it would be cruel to deprive the floor of your illustrious company, I suggest you pry yourself off it immediately." Grumbling to herself, the intruder picks herself up and slowly stumbles towards the desk, broom in one hand and a heavy sack of books in the other, her hair riddled with straw and dust. Rather like it typically was, really.

 

"Hey, Patches-" "The library is closed," the keeper of the library answers, without turning around. "And to exceptions I'm not predisposed. I was not expecting a guest, how long must I endure this pest? How many wards must you bypass, when you know perfectly well I tolerate no trespass?" Marisa blinks at this, once, twice, before tilting her head in confusion. "Patchwork? You sound a bit... weird. You alright?"

 

At this, Patchouli only sighs, shaking her head in disapproval. "Both untruth and, as ever, uncouth; before you call me a quilt, pick up those words you spilt." 'Patchwork', honestly. Where did she come up with all this? "Listen, I just came here to-" "You are a rat in the house of a bat; for a thief in my library, there's little to which I'll agree," the magician retorts, still in the same utter deadpan. The terms used between Sakuya and herself might have held more weight if Marisa did not regard them as another sort of nickname, but that could not be helped.

 

"Magician, you speak in riddles, and I'm all out of..." the witch pauses, fumbling for words, and eventually gives up, letting her arms down towards the floor in a gesture of exasperation. "...Fiddles? Dammit, I can't keep up with this. Here I am. Takin' your books. You going to set me on fire or what?" Ah, yes. The important questions. She glances at the empty chair on the other end of the table - it would not do to be unprepared, of course - then back to Marisa.

 

"Good question; I suppose I will need some time to consider it. You might as well have a seat while you wait."

 

A grin spreads across the black-white witch's face, as she drops into the chair with a loud thud. "Knew I could count on ya, Patchy. So what was with the... the rhymes earlier? You went all strange back there," she asks, brow furrowed with concern. "You must have misheard," Patchouli answers smoothly, "or do I strike you as the sort to take up Koakuma's predilections?" At this, the visitor, no longer quite an intruder as such, seems both befuddled and strangely accepting. She must have heard something, Patchouli just wasn't the sort. Maybe Koakuma was throwing her voice or... something along those lines.

 

There were other things to capture her attention, at any rate. Like the stuffed crocodile head on one wall, or the bowl under it that held a veritable lake of molten wax and burning wicks. Or the crystal orb. The pointed, crescent-adorned hat Patchouli wore, too, was striking enough. After some hesitation, she asks "...an' the crocodile? All those drippy candles? Th' _hat_? Any of that new?" The unmoving library raised an eyebrow, as if to say she had no idea what the witch was babbling about.

 

"...The wall is quite bare, Marisa," she explains patiently, "and my hat is as it always has been. ...You look rather fatigued, you must have imagined it."

 

The keeper of Voile was quite thoroughly humourless, never given to jokes or flights of fancy, nor to any tricks, and such stereotypical ostentation was quite alien to her. This was a reputation she kept held in a vise grip, carefully nurtured and protected. Once in a very long while, it let her enjoy the odd practical joke that the world - bar Koakuma - might never recognise as such. Marisa was fair game, in any case.

 

"...Yeah. Must be it," the thief answered, increasingly unsure of herself. Reaching into her backpack, she produced a heavy, weathered volume. John Dee's work, regrettably unedited. Neither her forte nor her field of interest, typically, but it was small wonder that Marisa found herself drawn to this particular author. The stars were, after all, never far from his thoughts. This was a recently stolen book, in fact, apparently returned here. This time, it was Patchouli's turn to stare in astonishment, looking up at Marisa in hope of an explanation. The witch, for her part, scratches behind her head, looking as close to embarrassed as she ever could.

 

"So, ah, Patches, I brought one o' your books back today!"

"... _What_?"

"Yeah, some of it didn't make sense to me, so I was thinking maybe you could tell me what it's going on about."

Incredible. And yet, somehow, entirely unsurprising, as much as she might wish that was not the case. At least it was back, and largely unharmed.

"...'Crime, once exposed, has no refuge but in audacity.' Tacitus's Annals, if you were wondering. I imagine you will find it in here some day." Sighing, she taps at the cover of the tome, looking between it and its most recent owner.

 

"...Go on, then. You might as well show me." Marisa's face lights up at this, not that it ever dimmed a great deal in the first place, flipping through the pages until she came to a point about a third of the way through, pointing at a particular paragraph. "Don't quite get what he's talking about here. Make any sense to you?" She asks, which brings the faintest of smiles to the magician's face, albeit not a kind one.

 

"Ah yes," she remarks, "that familiar refrain. 'Patchy? What does this word mean?'" "Aw, come on, that's just low-" the thief begins, looking a little flustered, but she is soon cut off. "Just as it is accurate. There's no shame in it, Marisa; not all the children in this mansion can be so gifted. In this case, however, the fault is not yours; the author is unfortunately fanciful and given to superstition, writing in a mystical fashion when he should by all rights be intelligible instead. Less so than his predecessors, but he is not altogether free of it. You will find my own rebound copy near where the original was, with my commentary and corrections added. Alternatively, I would suggest the works of Paracelsus, a rather more sensible man."

 

An author? Her? No, she would not dream of penning her own book, she did not know nearly enough for that. Perhaps some day. Still, somehow, correcting the works of those who came before her was second nature to Voile's keeper, even the duty of a modern, enlightened elementalist, as she had often claimed to others. Not that most of them paid any attention, but that was the price of being one of the sole practitioners of her craft in Gensokyo. "'Fanciful', huh. You're the one walking around with all that lavender and a bucket of ribbons, y'know," Marisa interjects as she considers this. A breath of wind gently removes the looted texts from the sack Marisa had been carrying, placing them on a stack. With each one, the magician's frown grew.

 

"I'm afraid I can't allow you to abscond with those," she concludes eventually. "Why?" The thief asks, "can't afford to lose 'em?" A quick shake of the head, here. "Hardly. I will not object to your blatant disregard of personal property - I know that much to be an exercise in futility - only your dubious taste. Those texts have little value beyond curiosity, written by hacks and charlatans. It would be disgraceful for me to allow a pupil to leave with such material." Marisa blinks once, twice; the librarian was making no sense at all.

 

"I ain't small enough to fit in your eye, Patches. Or purple enough." ...Yes, of course.

 

It was a half-lie at any rate. She would not dream of taking on a student, nor did she consider herself quite learned enough for it just yet, with only a century of practice to her name. Still, Voile had more than one student, and she was senior enough among them to act as a sort of guide. That would suffice. "Why d'you let me keep coming in here flying off with all these books anyway?" Marisa asked suddenly. "You give up or something?"

 

Desperation led to the strangest practices. There were so few in Gensokyo who would care for any of what she might say on the craft that had all but become her life, and far fewer still that would understand a word of it, much less be able to carry a coherent conversation. For all her countless faults, Marisa was a scholar and a picture of diligence at heart, and there was much to be discussed with her. There were so few others of her kind, and while a few of her books were far from an acceptable price for this, they were, like the witch's company, a tolerable price for a time. She made for good conversation, at the end of the day, provided she remembered not to talk quite so much.

 

Instead, Patchouli answers "out of a deep and abiding fear that you will one day elect to simply live here instead, and I shall never be rid of you."

"Aw, don't say that, Patch," Marisa complains, crestfallen for the next few seconds. "We're friends, right?"

"If that is true, then it will be the most distressing piece of news I have received in this past century. Now, onto more relevant topics; I trust the volumes you stole have at least been put to good use?" Here, never trying to deny the claim, the witch instead looks entirely too proud of herself, producing a small jar containing some sort of grey-green paste, almost sludge-like in a way.

 

"Fell behind a little on the other stuff," she explains, placing the jar on the desk. "Been mixing some stuff like in that book you had with all the... herbs and alchemy. Forget the name. Anyway, I reckon this should fix up your cough if-" "I'm sure that won't be necessary, Marisa." Thoughtful? Certainly, but at the same time, quite off the mark. It was, like how Marisa still remained human, a matter of a magician's pride. What did a cure mean if she had proven unable to provide one herself until the end? It was a puzzle to be solved by her personally, or not at all.

 

"My illnesses," she explains, "much like your mortality, are my own hurdles to overcome when and how I choose. That said, I will gladly accept any notes you may have kept for my own use." Oddly enough, the statement receives only calm acceptance from Marisa, a quick nod, as if to say she had expected nothing more. "Yeah, I figured; worth a shot anyway," the witch answers, while digging a small metal spoon out of her pack, wrapped in cloth, before taking a measure of the medicine for herself.

 

"...Marisa, what are you doing? You hardly seem ill to me." Looking up from the jar, she nods again at Patchouli. "Yeah, but I put... _all kinds_ of nice stuff in this, mint and honey and a couple other things. You gonna miss out on that? I sure ain't." Well, at least it would not go to waste.

 

"Now," she says between mouthfuls, "I've been doin' some tinkering in the last couple o' weeks, fiddlin' about with a couple old spells. Think I might be getting somewhere. Been tryin' to link up some of the... what'd you say it was called? Astronomical magic? Been trying to match it up with constellations, seasonal skies, that sorta thing, see what I can get." Her curiosity piqued, Patchouli leans forward slightly, elbows on the desk with her chin propped up by the backs of her hands. "Please, continue", she offers, giving the other magician her full attention for once.

 

"That's it? Y' ain't gonna tell me where I went wrong or nothin'?" "Marisa, if I were to recite every flaw in your methods, field of expertise, choices in life, character and grasp of common grammar, we would both grow old before I finished. Pray, continue." Unperturbed, Marisa only flashes a grin at her, an expression that seemed to be second nature to her. "Well, yeah, you're halfway there already. You just sound like you know this stuff already, y'know?" Well, now, that could hardly pass without correction. The unmoving library shakes her head - slowly, so as not to bring on another coughing fit - to deny this much.

 

"The magic you practice is unreliable - based in part as it is in emotion - and shows signs of grave thaumaturgical inefficiency-"

"Messy an' wasteful?"

A quiet sigh from Patchouli. "Yes, I suppose it could be characterised in such a fashion. In any event, I have no reason to attempt it, but there are unique elements within the practice that may merit adaptation. At any rate, you are the expert here, by dint of my refusing to busy my hands with your craft, and so I defer to you. As I said, you have my attention." Once her surprise has some time to settle - really, what was there to be so shocked by? - she launches back into her explanation.

 

"Right, so there's that, and I've been looking at ways to rework the hakkero a bit with Kourin's help. Thinking maybe there might be a way to work them into those philosopher's stones of yours, too. Worth a try some time, yeah? I'll get to the... star stuff later, must've left my notes somewhere in this bag. And then you've got the broom, I've been trying to find ways to make it fly without me sittin' on it. Yeah, I know, lot of plates spinning at once; I got a bit distracted, I guess. You oughta drop by some time! I'll show you what I've been doing, first hand and everything."

 

\- - -

 

It was always like this, eventually; the two would settle down and discuss their lifelong obsession for a good hour at the very least; Voile's contents were jealously guarded, at least in theory, but its keeper was all too happy to share what she knew, and receive in return. After all, she was a student at heart, and a teacher in that curious way that every enthusiast eventually became. The minutes passed without notice, ending with a stack of papers spread across the table, and Patchouli glancing at the clock. Remilia would be here soon enough, most likely, and sunset was drawing near in any case.

 

"I don't mean to alarm you, Marisa, but I've heard tales of this library."

"Yeah?" The visitor asks, her curiosity piqued.

"They say this room is home to a potent magician, a dour and merciless sort, who tolerates no intruder. Why, with all you've taken and the time you've spent here - I do believe you've even drank some of her tea- there is no telling what dire punishments she would inflict on you. I suggest you make your way out before she finds you. Do hurry along, before she notices what you've made off with."

 

Grinning again, Marisa brushes some of the dust out of her hair, before picking up her broom and bag, making her way towards the window. The debris had already been cleared away, likely by Sakuya, in some infinitesimally small crack between seconds. "Alright, alright. See ya 'round next week, Patchwork!" "Yes, yes, of course. I'm sure I have no choice." A rat, a thief, a constant irritation... but a colleague of sorts, and beggars couldn't be choosers, as they said. This would have to do.


	3. Destiny

Destiny (n): A happy coincidence and a miserable fate, altogether too trying to negotiate.  
   
Late afternoon in Voile. A time for chattering devils, vampiric intrusions, and a marked absence of anything resembling peace in the library. This, too, was fate after a fashion, it would seem. The calm is broken by a stack of books slamming down onto the desk beside her in a decidedly disapproving manner, in as much as the impact of a dozen heavy texts could possibly be disapproving.  
  
"Last month's batch, I see. Finished so soon?"  
  
"Patchouli," began the slightly high-pitched voice that tried entirely too hard to sound stern, "these books are _defective_."

"Oh? What seems to be the problem?" The problem was obvious, of course. They had been smashed against a hard surface with speed and force that she barely had the presence of mind to only refer to as sacrilegious in the privacy of her own mind. Still, Remilia no doubt had something else in mi- ah, there it was. 

"These books," she claimed, "were written by and _for_ dullards." It was no use arguing with the little vampire, now or any other time; she had learned that much over the course of nearly a century.

"Yes," answered the magician calmly, "I suppose this would explain much." She had been called one before, after all, and was reasonably fond of the texts she had lent out to her old friend. "What would you prefer, then? Something on the old country? Or... hm, perhaps some sort of novel, this time. Koakuma may be busy, unfortunately. I suggest you take it up with Flandre, I'm certain she'll have better recommendations than I can offer." There was some truth in that; fiction was hardly her forte. The suggestion only elicits a frown from Remilia. "...And I'm quite certain she would be pleased to discuss it with you, or hear anything you may be able to suggest." This, on the other hand - an opportunity to grace her with the elder vampire's no doubt peerless taste - gets an enthusiastic agreement.

Incredible, really. They had known each other for five centuries, and it fell to her to arrange excuses for the two sisters to meet. She had accomplished a good deal in this room, over the years, but giving the Scarlets some common point - some excuse to meet more often, whatever the cause at the time, and something to talk over besides the latest assertions of Remilia's greatness - was perhaps the most significant, in her mind. Unlike her to be so sentimental? Perhaps. Koakuma had told her as much, but some things were important.

She had known Remilia for... oh, far too long. Almost her entire life. When she had arrived, she was only a child, and knew nothing of Flandre. In the years since, she had grown into a hermit in a crowded room, and Remilia... well, change was not in Remilia's nature. The eternally young scarlet moon, they called her, and not without reason. Then they found Sakuya, somewhere in Shanghai's darker places. And, of course, a certain gatekeeper. A mansion of unchanging children, aside Meiling, for the longest time. Looking around, it was a little harder than she might have liked to claim that today was any different.

"There's something else, Remi," she adds, not a question but a statement. "What did you need?" Blinking, the vampire attempts to look accused, somehow, as if Patchouli had made some outrageous claim, but she quickly deflates.

" _How_?"

"Last week, you claimed that I was practically ancient dust given form as a witch, and every heartbreakingly dull moment spent in these halls made your black, withered soul age irrevocably."

"You weren't supposed to remember that!"

With a quiet cough, the librarian shakes her head, an impression of meekness, before looking down. "Oh, yes. Please excuse my indiscretion. Now, what did you need?"

Somewhat put off, the scarlet devil adjusts her hat before beginning. "Reimu has not been here in almost a year, Patchy." A quiet, somehow disbelieving cough answers this claim.

"Are you quite certain, Remi? I distinctly remember her visiting just the other day. She was quite loud."

"No, no, nothing like that. I demand an invasion." The lady of the mansion - to term her generously - waved her arms about dramatically. "Torches! Pitchforks! Screaming peasantry, rivers of blood, burning fields and mangled crosses! A daring, futile challenge to the queen of the night! All this peace does not befit a villain of my stature."

Faced with the lengthy tirade, the magician only takes a sip of her tea, patiently listening, waiting for Remilia to finish. It had been a while, of course. She knew this was coming. "I would not be so quick to discuss your stature if I were you, Remi." Apparently never quite deigning to notice this, the vampire continues on.

"I require a... what do they call it here? An incident. Burning skies, wailing forests, clouds raining blood, villages sinking below the earth, and so on and so forth. Make it so, sorceress." _Sorceress_. Well, at least it was a step up from 'thaumaturge' or 'witch'.

"I suppose it's pointless to argue. What will it be?"

At this, her old friend perks up again. "Something... classical. Surely you can turn Misty Lake into blood?"

In a manner of speaking, if I alter the water's mineral composition and the like, though it would be useless _as_ blood. That said, I imagine Sakuya would be quite cross if I destroyed Gensokyo's primary source of fish, all concerns of fresh water aside. That, and we would be besieged by a neverending tide of belligerent fairies. Miracles are quite inconvenient nowadays, I'm afraid, without any sort of divine sanction. What else did you have in mind?" 

Undaunted, Remilia continues on. "Very well, then. The heavens themselves shall be my chariot! Burning, screaming, bearing me down to the earth as I set forth to conquer it, crushing my enemies under my iron heel. Its every step will shake the world and send up plumes of smoke to herald the end days!" Hm. Fire, earth... yes, a saturday would probably be ideal.

"I'm sure I can manage some facsimile of an asteroid for you to ride," she answers, after a moment.

"I don't recall asking for the details, soothsayer, those are your concern." Soothsayer. Well now, that was even worse.

She had been asked, in the past, why she still kept Remilia's company, when they seemed to have so little in common. ...Many reasons, habit not least among them, most of which she knew well enough that she would not understand until the vampire was gone. Fate. There was that as well, of course. The elder Scarlet was alone, and did not wish to be, so fate warped and twisted until others were brought to inhabit the mansion forever, like a child's dolls. It had taken her years to realise that the circumstances that left her with no recourse but to move to her strange friend's home - some merely curious, others dire to say the least - veered quite far from coincidence. Did she begrudge it? Were the chains of fate necessary to keep her here? No, certainly not. The very thought was laughable. The scarlet devil was a dear friend, and that was that.

"...Flandre," her inexplicable companion asks eventually. "How is she?" A note of concern, so rare in this self-proclaimed ruthless queen of the night.

"Doing as well as can be expected, I should think. Why not check on her yourself? She's always overjoyed to have a chance to see you, as you're well aware." In the years since she had come here, she had come to learn that the sisters could be read like a book. Judged easily enough by what little appeared on the surface, but they would take countless years to reveal all that lay within, to give up any of their secrets. There was a great deal there that so few others saw. Sympathy for the devil was as ill-advised - and, perhaps, undeserved - as it was easy to come by.

"I'll not keep you any longer. That said, tomorrow night, I believe we should survey potential sites for your impac- that is, your arrival. Would you care to join me on a walk around the premises?" Ah yes, the shock on her face. This was paying off already.

"A _what_? I assumed fresh air would scatter you to the winds. You never-"

"Never? Rarely. Sometimes, I would like to think it's worthwhile. Don't let this dull conjurer hold you up, Remi. Run along, now."

...Yes, old friends. Old, precious friends that meant all the world. Gods only knew why.


End file.
